Quietly
by Fennelseed
Summary: Sam and Frodo find new ways to stay warm on the quest. They have to be quiet about it, though - wouldn't want to wake up the rest of the Fellowship. [SLASH. Finished!]


Disclaimer: None of these characters or settings belong to me; they were created by the wondrous Tolkien and remain the property of his estate. Nobody pays me to write this stuff.  
  
Author's note: Dear Abby: I can't seem to stop writing Frodo and Sam's first time. Surely I'm beginning to repeat myself and should try to quit. But just this week I wrote another one, which I've enclosed so you can read it and tell me what's wrong with me. Is there a name for my condition? Is there anyone who can help? Sincerely, Fennelseed the Frodoslasher.  
  
* * *  
  
It is safe to say that a lot of things have changed since Weathertop. There is the wound in his shoulder, for one. There is the memory of how he got that wound: a frigid blade, a skeletal face he never wants to see again, a world where all the edges seemed whipped by wind. There is the memory of the feverish gallop across the water into Rivendell, and the black space in his mind that followed after he collapsed into the hands of the Elves. There is the realization that, although they healed him in Rivendell, the danger is not over. That was decided when he volunteered at the Council to continue carrying the Ring. There is, in short, a very heavy new weight on Frodo Baggins' mind, and it does not look as if it will be getting lighter anytime soon.  
  
But then there are the changes since Weathertop that aren't so unpleasant. For instance, his fond ear for languages has delighted, in calmer hours, in listening to the words spoken by Gimli and Legolas in their respective native tongues. He has learned several new phrases, some of them even fit for polite company. A few of the Elves in Rivendell sat and spoke with him in Sindarin, at his request, so that he could practice it. Sam was often there, listening in admiration. It was the proudest Frodo has ever felt of his linguistic aptitude. In addition, he must admit he is gathering rich and exciting material for memoirs. He never thought he would be an honored guest in Rivendell, or a traveller standing at the foot of Caradhras, as he is now, and admiring its snowy slopes.   
  
And the most stunning change of all: until he saw Sam's stricken face over him, the night of Weathertop, and heard the miserable tremor in Sam's voice as Sam tried to cheer him ("Look, Mr. Frodo, it's Mr. Bilbo's trolls!"), Frodo didn't know he could love a friend so much. Samwise was always a friend, and a good friend too; but on that terrifying night, bleeding on the forest floor, certain he was about to die, Frodo realized with a pang that he loved Sam as much as he loved Bilbo, and that it was now too late to do anything about it.  
  
But he hadn't died. It wasn't too late. And it also was not the same *way* as he loved Bilbo, he soon realized. Frodo thought it was the same at first, until his mind cleared and he awakened in Rivendell, and Sam rushed in and squeezed his hand. Frodo was very glad to see him, and would have welcomed a hug as well - but then Sam blushed, let go of him as if he thought he was doing something improper, and admitted unsteadily that it was good to feel warmth in Frodo's hands again. The blush, the stammer, the indirect admission that he had been holding Frodo's hand all this time...Frodo felt tears prick his eyes in a surge of giddy lightheadedness that had nothing to do with blood loss and simply could not be compared to his feelings for relatives.   
  
All through their stay in Rivendell, after that, Sam and Frodo tiptoed around each other as if they were living inside a soap bubble and were afraid to break it. They certainly did not avoid each other - in fact, as Elrond noticed, they were almost impossible to separate - and their conversations seemed mostly the same as ever, on the surface. But *something* had changed. It was not just that Frodo had almost died but was now all right. Rather, Sam and Frodo now seemed to share some new and dazzling secret.   
  
They haven't spoken of this secret, but at least once every day since Frodo awoke in Rivendell, his eyes, moving ordinarily across the world, have collided and snagged on Sam's, and they have gazed at each other without speaking. It's happening again, as Frodo thinks of it: here at the base of Caradhras, where the Fellowship has called a stop for food and a brief rest, he seeks Sam's gaze and finds it waiting for him, half a pace from his side. Given where they are headed now, it should be fear they see reflected in each other's faces, or depression perhaps, but it is quite the contrary: he sees (and feels) wonder, and quiet joy. And every time Sam has taken his hand, which has only so far been for practical purposes such as steadying him on a steep path, Frodo has thought of heat, has paid attention to the temperature and texture of Sam's skin, has wanted to twine his fingers between Sam's and tell him, "I like to feel the warmth of your hand, too."   
  
There's the chance that this is all in Frodo's imagination, he supposes - but no. A few minutes later, as if to erase this possibility, Sam brings him bread wrapped around cheese, sits down beside him so that their sides press together familiarly, and murmurs in a deep tone meant only for one hobbit's ears, "How are you, then, m'dear?"  
  
Frodo basks in those eyes a little while longer, and answers, equally low, "Fine. At this moment, absolutely fine."  
  
Sam has the sense not to ask why. They're above playing such games with each other. He nudges Frodo's knee, and takes a healthy bite of cheese. Legs touching, they turn to watch Pippin playing at swordfighting with Merry.  
  
By nightfall, they have climbed high enough that they have waded into snow up to Frodo's thighs, and the going has been plenty difficult enough to take his mind off love for the time being. But it is not an easy topic to put off. For one thing, love is quite possibly the best thing in the world, and if Frodo wishes to keep his sanity on a journey into certain peril, he must remember why this world is worth saving. For another thing, Strider is now advising them all to share blankets if they find themselves getting cold tonight, because the chill of the mountain can be deadly. Sam's eyes and Frodo's, mutual magnets that they are, fly to meet each other. One guess who they will be sharing blankets with, Frodo thinks, and tries not to laugh out of sheer pleasure.  
  
Indeed, Sam does not wait to be invited. As the group carves out a crowded sleeping area in the lee of a cliff, where the snow is only shin-deep on a hobbit, Sam spreads one of his blankets on the ground and then arranges all of his and Frodo's other blankets atop it: a tidy bed for two. Frodo, leaning against the rock wall, watches him with amusement. Sam catches his look, and defends, "I'll not have your hands getting so cold again."  
  
"No, that *would* be awful," Frodo agrees.  
  
Soon after that, the sunset fades completely, and the clouds move in, and there is such darkness that Frodo cannot make out a facial expression on anyone, even from three inches away. Which is approximately how far away his face is from Sam's. Sam is lying on his side and Frodo is lying on his back; they huddle together and try to hide from the wind, which has picked up with a vengeance. Tiny snowflakes, or perhaps ice crystals swept up from the mountainside, occasionally strike their faces. No one in the group is speaking, and from the sound of snores Frodo thinks Gimli and Boromir might even be asleep; but he cannot imagine falling asleep in this cold, not even with Sam's warmth along his side. The outer side of his face is freezing, as is his outer arm and foot. He burrows closer to Sam, and finds Sam's hand. Sam, who seemed to be breathing deeply before, is awake instantly, and grasps Frodo's fingers. Frodo hears a faint hum of consternation, and then Sam is drawing his hand up between their chests, kneading it between both of his own hands to warm it.  
  
Frodo chuckles voicelessly in apology. Sam answers with a reassuring squeeze. The finger massage seems to be working: after a minute or so, the warmth and feeling are returning to Frodo's hand. He turns slightly toward Sam and begins squeezing in return. Soon they are adrift in a lazy rub involving all four hands, fingers entwining and unlacing and circling, like a slow-motion game of cat's-cradle in exceptionally close quarters. Frodo could fall asleep this way, he thinks now, drowsily, if not for the chill on his face above the blanket.  
  
Then Sam abandons the cat's-cradle and slides his hand up Frodo's arm to his back, where he begins a new massage, one which pulls Frodo closer against him. Frodo's nose meets Sam's, gently, and they find that both are quite chilly. While Sam's hand rubs Frodo's back, Frodo tilts his head from side to side so that a slight friction warms their noses. (He has heard they call this a kiss in faraway cold climates, but doesn't know if this is just a legend.) He also thinks it is time to do something about that cold foot of his, so he plants it on Sam's calf. Sam, understandably, sucks in a breath at the frigid touch, but then hooks Frodo's knee around his own so that their legs are entwined, and their feet begin a rhythmic slide back and forth.   
  
Happily enmeshed from toes to noses, Sam and Frodo sink gradually deeper into their blanket-cocoon, which finally seems to be retaining some warmth. Somehow they find themselves sharing a pillow (or rather, the edge of Sam's rucksack, which is serving as one), and in the hypnotic brush of nose-tip against nose-tip, Frodo's lips are sometimes brushing Sam's as well. He can feel the steady exhalations of warm, moist air from Sam's nose, settling to a foggy chill on both their mouths as the wintry wind whips the heat away. Really, Frodo thinks in his half-asleep state, when they are doing all this, and when they have shared so many meaning-laden glances, it is sillier *not* to kiss Samwise than it is to kiss him.   
  
So he kisses him. It takes only a tilt of his chin, a reshaping of his lips, and a cessation of movement. Sam's lips, lazy in sleepiness, do not respond at first; they lie smooth and cool beneath Frodo's. They feel pleasant, and Frodo doubts that Sam minds being kissed, so he kisses him again, and again. Sam's arms come back to life, tightening their grasp. His lips awaken too, and now he is kissing Frodo back. Frodo opens his eyes, but it makes little difference; everything is so dark. Over Sam's shoulder he barely discerns the silhouette of Aragorn keeping watch, hunched in his cloak, his profile to them. Snow swirls stinging into Frodo's eyes, and he shuts them again. He fumbles for the top of the blanket, pulls it over their heads, and leans into the contours of Samwise's mouth. His hand clasps the back of Sam's head, feeling curls soft and wind-chilled.   
  
They spend a while exploring this novel activity, parting one another's lips with tongue-tips, trying short kisses and long, bending once in a while to press a mouth to a cheek, a chin, a neck - all with restraint, stretching their movements as slow as treacle (and just as sweet) so that they do not make too much noise. Frodo, for one, would not wish to alert their companions to what they are doing. The others needn't horn in on this luscious secret. It is his and Sam's, theirs alone.   
  
And Sam tastes of melted snow, with a tang of dried berries from dinner, and a lingering flavor of cedar from the fragrant twigs of peeled wood he uses to scrub his teeth. It keeps them clean and wards off toothache, he has said; it's a Gamgee family tradition. Frodo has taken to the practice too, and is glad for it now. It isn't just cedar or berries on his tongue, though: it is *Sam*, indescribable and mouth-watering. Could Frodo have his own taste that is affecting Sam the same way? He cannot really know, but he hopes so.  
  
They are exhausted from the day's climb, and are not in their tweens anymore - Frodo especially, he thinks wryly - so by degrees they are falling asleep. Their lips move less and less. Frodo has a sparkle of conscious thought before succumbing to slumber: "Kissing ourselves to sleep. How lovely, and how very improper: I, and Sam Gamgee! Whatever would Bilbo say if he knew?"   
  
Then he smiles, for his mind has conjured a response in Bilbo's familiar voice: "What! Rolling about in blankets with the servants! Oh, well, if it's Samwise then I suppose it's all right."  
  
Eventually he is sleeping on the floor in Bag End - it doesn't occur to him to wonder why the floor and not the bed - and Sam is lying behind him, arm holding Frodo close. Sam's regular breath lands warm on the back of Frodo's neck. Sometimes Sam's body tenses and relaxes, tightening around him. Frodo begins to notice a firmness of unmistakable shape pressing against his rear. He presses back, wriggling in an erotic fervor. Knowing what it is, being able to feel that part of Sam, makes him so excited that he is trembling. He wants to make Sam feel the same way. He pushes against Sam, again, shifting up and down slowly so that Sam can benefit from the friction. Sam whimpers in his sleep, and slides a hand over Frodo's hip, straight onto Frodo's own hardness. Frodo rolls his face down into the rough canvas pillow and exhales through his mouth. His hips move pleadingly, meeting Sam's hand in front.  
  
He writhes himself completely awake.  
  
And he finds that he has got everything right except the setting. They are, unfortunately, on a frigid mountainside rather than the floor of Bag End, and (even more unfortunately) they are not alone. But Sam is spooned against his back, asleep and aroused, and his hand, under the blankets, is dreamily squeezing at Frodo's groin. The blanket over their heads has slipped enough so that Frodo can see it is still dark, but not as dark as before: the sky is now a deep gray. Where Aragorn was sitting, Gandalf sits now, immobile and looking outward. Frodo wants to groan in frustration. The salt taste of high arousal is still wet in his mouth; Sam's hand teases and tantalizes between his legs. How did it happen, that he has awakened to find *this* his most desperate need, his most obsessive thought, on such a journey? Surely it is some form of Ring-inspired insanity.   
  
If so, he has a newfound liking for the Ring.  
  
Not at all sure that he should be doing any of this, he rubs his rear against Sam's loins in the hopes of obtaining another squeeze. He gets one - and bites the inside of his lip to keep from moaning - but then Sam awakens, takes a breath, figures out what he is doing, and snatches his hand away fearfully.   
  
"S-s...," Sam begins, most likely the first sound in "Sorry."  
  
"Shh," Frodo whispers back. And he takes Sam's hand and brings it right back to where it was. He squeezes himself, through Sam's fingers, showing them what to do.  
  
Sam's head turns downward, into the rucksack, and Frodo feels a gasp on the nape of his neck. The hand grasps, strokes, dips down to explore. The hardness behind Frodo thrusts firmly against him. If this lasts one more scant minute, Frodo is thinking, his mind deliciously dizzy, he shall surely burst; his breeches are already damp with melted snow; maybe a little more wetness won't matter, even if it's not as clean as water...  
  
A rustle. A squeak-crunch of a footstep in the snow. They stop squirming, and Sam's hand pulls away furtively. Someone touches their blankets from above, nudging their shoulders. "Frodo, Sam, time to wake up," Strider's voice says.  
  
Frodo is a gentlehobbit and is, anyway, too old to resort to childish angry pranks, but nonetheless he has a strong urge right now to take a handful of snow and shove it down Strider's shirtfront.   
  
But they get up, for they must. In the brightening dawn light, Sam's face is dazed and flushed. He clutches one blanket at his waist while he climbs to his feet. Frodo does the same. Merry and Pippin are stiffly crawling out of their shared blankets, complaining about not sleeping long enough or well enough. Merry scowls at Frodo. "Looks like Frodo and Sam slept, at any rate."  
  
A fierce blush flares in Frodo's face. "No better than anyone else, I'm sure," he defends, as if admitting that he slept would be admitting aloud to his erotic dream and its outcome.   
  
During their cold breakfast, Sam sits beside Frodo, sharing a lap blanket with him. They are huddling close to each other, and they talk with Legolas about the chance of further snow today and how nice it would be to walk atop it the way he can. Frodo doesn't dare look into Sam's eyes yet. He knows it will tie his tongue in knots, and his face will betray his desire, and everything will be obvious to everyone. Still, when they are kneeling and packing up their gear, he looks sideways and meets Sam's lightning-bright glance. Frodo has to suck in a breath to get sufficient air. The folds in Sam's coat fill outward, suggesting he is doing the same. Frodo feels a radiant smile surface on his lips. He sees it answered on Sam's. Then they both duck their heads and continue packing.  
  
Luckily - or unluckily depending how you look at it - there are plenty more distractions for them today. They slog through the snow again, only to come to the decision that they must turn *back* and head down to the mines instead. All that climbing and freezing for nothing.  
  
Well, not for *nothing*, Frodo amends in his mind as Aragorn carries him, piggy-back, through a high snowbank. He has passed an extremely interesting night, which he hopes will open the door to more similarly interesting nights. (Plus, he adds to himself, hiding a smile, not many hobbits can say they have gotten a piggy-back ride from the heir to the throne of Gondor.)  
  
It is dark again by the time they drag their weary feet to the sealed doors of Moria. Gandalf then breaks the news to Sam that Bill, their faithful pony since Bree, cannot come into the mines with them. Sam argues, but it is to no avail; Gandalf is right: Bill would not like the mines, and would not even be able to traverse some parts of them. Sam goes sullen and doesn't say anything as he unfastens Bill's ropes. Frodo, who has long been touched by Sam's gentle way with creatures, cannot think what to say to comfort him. He stands by him, and strokes Bill's soft nose while Sam takes the packs off. "Poor Bill," Frodo murmurs. "You're much better off out here, I daresay."  
  
Bill ducks his head sideways and nuzzles Sam's ear, as if he understands. This is too much for Sam, whose breath shatters on a quiet sob. Moonlight-glittered tears spill onto his cheeks. Frodo's heart seizes up. "Sam," he says helplessly.  
  
Sam throws the gear down on the ground, awkwardly gives Bill's mane a last stroke with his hand, and flees to the shadows of the rock wall. Merry, Pippin, and Boromir, chastened into silence, begin sorting out the gear. Frodo follows Sam, who has sat down upon a boulder and is angrily rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. Frodo feels love and empathy like an ache, like a tender illness coursing through his veins. He also feels the difference of their ages as he approaches Sam, who now looks like a miserably forlorn teen, and seemingly could not be the same robust fellow who was handling Frodo so intimately this morning.   
  
Frodo steps behind Sam and sets firm hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles of Sam's cloak as if this will make everything better, as if it will buck up his strength. He knows it is a pose Bilbo has used upon him, and remembers his parents standing that way over him too, squeezing his young shoulders in pride and worry and protectiveness. But Sam is not just like a relative, Frodo must again admit to himself. Sam is somehow heir and friend and lover all in one. It is a wondrous new change, and no mistake.  
  
Frodo climbs onto the boulder, draping his arm and half his cloak around Sam as he eases down beside him. Sam leans against his side. Frodo tells Sam he is sorry, and Sam answers that it isn't his fault. Then -   
  
"*Mellon*!" Gandalf laughs in triumph.  
  
The rune-covered doors crack and creak open with a shudder. Frodo feels the vibrations in the rock beneath him. He and Sam jump up and crowd around the door with the others.  
  
Gandalf is airily explaining the riddle when suddenly a lot of things happen in quick succession. Something grabs Frodo's ankle. The ground smacks against his chest. Before he knows it he is being swung upside-down above the dark lake, with arrows and tentacles whipping through the air around him. Everyone is yelling, but he hears Sam's panicked and fierce tones above the others. Frodo, fatalistically accepting the idea that he is really going to die this time, is terribly sorry for Sam. His death will be hard for Sam to take, and right on top of having to say goodbye to Bill, too.  
  
Then he is falling, and by some miracle being caught by human arms, and everyone is crashing into the mines. Tentacles come closer, knock down all the rocks, and within seconds the Fellowship is in the dark. Darker than night on Caradhras, darker than the cellars under Bag End, an absolute thick black dark. But somehow even in the blackness Sam is sure of Frodo's location: Frodo finds himself seized and hugged tight, by a Samwise shaking with adrenaline and gulping against tears.  
  
"It's all right," Frodo whispers, over and over. "It's all right."  
  
They do not let each other go even when Gandalf lights up the top of his staff. Everyone is so shaken that nobody seems to give their pose a second thought. Merry, in fact, lays a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder as if to help; and Aragorn leans down to ask if Frodo is wounded. Sam gradually lets go as Frodo answers that he is fine, just bruised, and Aragorn separates them further by turning Frodo around to examine him. When everyone believes he is unhurt, the group's collective attention turns to the road ahead of them: days of walking underground in this darkness.  
  
They do not attempt to go too far that night. After perhaps two hours of making their way into the mines, they find a room that will serve as a campsite, and spread their bedrolls down upon the stone floor. Gandalf and Legolas post themselves outside the door, with the lighted staff; a weak beam of light trickles into the doorway but fades after a few feet. The corners of the room are effectively dark.  
  
Sam and Frodo have claimed such a corner. They lie close together, their blankets overlapping. Sam has calmed down since the traumatic incidents outside the mines, but he still seems melancholy. Frodo moves closer, and wraps his arm over Sam's body, hugging him to his chest, a reversal of their positions from that morning. Sam enfolds Frodo's arm in both of his own, and they lie quietly for a spell.  
  
When the snores and deep breathing of their companions begin to drift around them in the darkness, mingled with whispers in Elvish from Legolas and Gandalf in the corridor, Sam turns over to face Frodo, and embraces him. His face hides in the crook of Frodo's neck, and he sighs as if deeply unhappy. Frodo rubs Sam's back, trying to be reassuring without saying anything, trying to make Sam believe that things will be all right, at least for tonight. Their legs bump against each other and entangle; Sam shifts a knee up between Frodo's thighs. He then lifts his head and kisses Frodo on the mouth.  
  
Frodo responds, trying not to make any noise, knowing how distinctive the sound of a kiss can be in a quiet room. They move their lips and tongues tenderly, maintaining near-perfect silence. Frodo's body, however, cannot easily forget how this morning started, especially now that he is tasting Sam's warm wet mouth again. He feels heat rush between his legs and swell his flesh. This probably is not what Sam needs right now, and Frodo feels guilty and wrong; but when he shifts, hoping it will escape Sam's notice, he only makes it worse: a fold of his clothing moves, and unsprings him inside his breeches, so that his arousal pokes directly into Sam's leg.   
  
He draws back a little, and now it is his turn to start whispering the first sound in "Sorry." But Sam stops him. His hand travels down to Frodo's hip and pulls him in tighter. Held there, up against his companion, still for a few suspended seconds, Frodo can now feel Sam as well, through their two layers of breeches, twitching and swelling with each pulse. Frodo releases a pent-up breath and lunges forward to kiss Sam anew. He eases Sam onto his back, their legs still tangled; Frodo's thigh straddles across Sam's hips.  
  
While they kiss, Sam's hands move surreptitiously up and down Frodo's back, and Frodo's roam along Sam's chest and sides. He notices that the slide of arms on cloth is making a rustling sound, which will not do, so he finds the buttons of Sam's shirt, gets two of them open, and slips his hand into the gap. He meets smooth heated skin, soft sparse hair, and, further up, a silky nipple. As he fondles it, dragging fingertips around it until it hardens under his touch, he inadvertently thrusts against Sam's thigh.   
  
Sam is starting to quiver as he breathes. He follows Frodo's lead and tugs Frodo's shirt out of his waistband. Upon doing so he finds the mithril vest, but is deterred only for a second; then he is under that as well, stroking Frodo's bare back and waist. The mithril was made for a barrel-chested dwarf, after all; when a slender hobbit wears it, there is still plenty of room to add a pair of questing hands.  
  
Touching Sam under his clothes...Frodo is thrilled at the idea of what he is doing. And while nipples and chest hair are all very well, he knows what he really wants to touch. He can feel it, a warm lump there under his leg, quite within his reach if he dares...after all, Sam touched *his*; surely it would only be fair...  
  
Heart pounding so that he can feel it in every part of himself, Frodo's hand moves down Sam's belly, meets his trousers, and slides underneath the cloth. Down, along a thicket of curly hair, until he gets a handful of cramped-tight rigidity. Mouth watering, he pulls it into a less cramped position, and feels the length harden as the blood rushes in. Sam is now breathing fast and shallow against Frodo's neck. Frodo finds he is rocking back and forth on Sam's leg, and the cloth is making a whispering sound as he does so, but it feels too good to stop.   
  
He is running his palm and fingertips all over Sam's private parts (oh good gracious, if Bilbo knew what he was up to *now*!); and now Sam is...oh, Sam is opening his trousers and pushing them down; he is exposing himself, under the blankets, to Frodo's touch. Frodo moans a bit, but Sam's hand is there, firm at the back of his head, to remind him to be silent. Three rapid tapping sounds whisper from Sam's throat, the way one might say "Ah-ah-ah" to warn someone. Frodo swallows and nods. Then he unbuttons his own breeches, shoves them to his knees, and climbs halfway onto Sam, whose hand immediately grips him.   
  
Stroking each other, tongues fighting in one mouth and then the other, they tremble and strain to stay quiet in the dark. Frodo hopes frantically that nothing dangerous happens in the next few minutes - imagine how horrible it would be if Gandalf rushed in with the bright staff-light and began tearing blankets off people to get them up! Imagine, being discovered with their trousers around their knees, their hands all over each other, their arousals obvious...hardly fitting behavior for the fifty-year-old Ringbearer! He and Sam must want each other very badly, to risk it. Frodo cannot speak for Sam, but for himself, this is true; this is very definitely true.  
  
Driven wild by the thrill, so close to release that even the idea of being caught excites him, Frodo pushes Sam's hand away and moves directly on top of him, bucking against Sam's bare belly. Frodo Baggins has never got this far with anyone, so if this counts as losing his virginity (which he imagines it well should, the technicalities be damned), then he wants to do it right. Older Brandybuck cousins long ago gave him vivid descriptions of what "right" was - descriptions that were more or less verified later by the occasional couples under the Party Tree on warm nights, who never seemed to realize how visible they were from the roof of Bag End should anyone happen to be up there smoking a pipe. In short, as best as Frodo can judge from all *that*, "right" ultimately involves one hobbit lying on top of the other and sliding up and down. This sounds a remarkably tempting idea as a way to reach that peak with Samwise, so that is what he wants to do.  
  
But how, *how*, can he be expected to stay quiet? This kind of feeling calls for labored breathing, disconnected words in Sam's ear about his desires, at least one gasp or moan; but they can't, they just can't. Gimli lies less than four feet from their side, and Pippin and Merry are just beyond him, and the room echoes...   
  
At the last moment, Frodo pulls his mouth out of the kiss and sinks his teeth into Sam's shoulder. It steadies him just enough to be mostly quiet when, with a shudder, release takes him. Warmth flows between their bodies; Frodo quivers and rides the waves for a long while. Within seconds, Sam is biting Frodo's shoulder too (near the side of his neck, where there is no mithril in the way), and with a jerk through Sam's body, new warmth pulses against Frodo's skin. Neither of them says a word.  
  
When they are both still, Frodo slumps down onto Sam in exhaustion - truly, he thinks, he is *not* young anymore - and rests a moment. With the side of his hand he smooths away the saliva he left on Sam's shoulder, and then hugs Sam's head gently against his own. Sam is running tired fingers through Frodo's hair. After a minute or two, Frodo shifts away, onto his own abandoned blanket, and they squirm around in the dark getting themselves wiped off and rebuttoned. Frodo straightens his rumpled shirt, and collapses again, contented, alongside Sam. He can still feel the pressure on his shoulder where Sam bit him. He reckons there will be a mark there the next day. On his left shoulder a scar from the Nazgul's sword, a mark of evil; on his right, the shape of Sam's teeth, a mark of love. He feels balanced now.  
  
All those years...he thinks drowsily. How did he not know Sam had such talents, such attractions? They could have paid visits to the Party Tree of their own. He grins, and quivers with silent wonderstruck laughter. Sam touches his face in concern - it probably feels like he's crying. Frodo lets the laughter become audible, just for a second, and Sam's touch becomes playful and fond, ruffling his hair.   
  
"What?" Sam demands, a breath above silence.  
  
"Oh *my*," Frodo whispers back, which is about the only way he can describe it.  
  
Sam seems to understand. He kisses Frodo on the nose-tip, and draws him in close. 


End file.
